Bad Blood
by catecat7
Summary: We all know what fate has in store for Lily Evans, James Potter, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin. But before that, they became terribly young soldiers in a rebellion against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. This is an in-depth look at how the war affected them psychologically, and altered their relationships. Rated for violence, language, and mature themes.


_**Author's Note: **__My aim for this story is to delve into the nitty gritty details __of war and__ its __effect__ on the Marauders and Lily Evans. I am a History major and so have studied __war__fairly__extensively__; __using__ first hand accounts __of war__ for inspiration (__especially__ from World __War__ II, a direct parallel to the First Wizarding __War),__ I __hope__ I can __shed some light on__ what happened to these five people in the three years they fought in the __war__. I have anchored myself in the __canon__ timeline and characteristics; while the plot is mine, and I am filling in some of the blanks in characterization, all the choices I make are rooted in __canon__. __I will warn you, though, that this is not going to be a feel-good read. I want to do justice to the tragedies of the First Wizarding War, and bits of it will get very, very dark. __Not all of it, but as I've said, my primary focus in the __effect__of war__ on the __characters__. The inspiration for the title of this story came from the blood purity issue that is central to Voldemort's regime, as well as Bastille's song 'Bad Blood,' which I highly advise you listen to. I very much __hope__ you give this a chance and with any luck, __will__ enjoy it. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.  
__Best,  
__Cate_

_Disclaimer: All __characters__ and settings in the __Harry Potter__ universe belong to J K __Rowling__, and alas, I am not her. I'm just playing with the wonderful world she created. (Quotes with an * are taken __directly__ from various __Harry Potter__ books, and are not __mine__.)_

**31 OCTOBER, 1981**

* * *

"_**This is not the **__**end**__**. **__**It is not even the beginning of the end. **__**But it is, perhaps, the **__**end**__** of the **__**beginning**__**."**_

_**-Winston Churchill**_

* * *

He stood trembling before the taller wizard, his eyes flickering between him and the only door in the room, which was far too far away to offer any comfort. The frigid flagstones dug painfully into his knees as he cowered.

The figure before him reached one white, skeletal hand forward, beckoning.

"Well, Wormtail?"

Peter shuffled forward on his knees, head bent, unable to make himself meet those sinister red eyes.

"M-m-my Lord…. I…" he choked on his words, bile rising in his throat, and he thought he might be ill.

"I'm waiting."

Peter wrung his hands, sweating profusely. "They've m-made me their s-secret keeper, m-my Lord." He cringed as the high, cold laugh echoed in the room. With a flick of the white hand, against the black robe, Peter's chin lifted, forcing him to meet the Dark Lord's eyes.

"Tell me where they are."

Shaking like a leaf, Peter swallowed hard. "B-but-"

He screamed in agony as Voldemort's rage knocked him to the floor, engulfing him in pain, white hot and overwhelming.

"It's your choice, Pettigrew. Your life, or theirs."

The pain stopped suddenly, leaving Peter gasping and moaning. The room spun before his eyes as betrayal and guilt filled his veins; he wished, now more than ever, that he possessed some of James' or Sirius' or Remus' or Lily's courage.

_I'm __sorry__,_ he thought silently. _I'm so __sorry__._

His voice was hoarse as he forced out the words.

"Godric's Hollow."

* * *

The motorbike hit the ground with a dull thud, as Sirius manoeuvred it out of the sky and into an empty alleyway. Without faltering, he sped around the corner and onto the adjacent street, narrowly missing an elderly man who was putting out the rubbish bin. The man's curses and indignant shouts fell on deaf ears, for Sirius was already halfway down the block, and was focused solely on his destination. Adrenaline pumped through him as he hunched over the handlebars, pressing down on the gas and urging his bike faster, _faster__._

Finally, the old brick building came into view, and with one last burst of speed Sirius pulled up next to the pavement in front of it. He kicked it to a sudden halt and leaped from it. In his haste, his leather jacket caught on the handlebars and tore, and he swore loudly; it had been a gift from Lily, and Sirius could just see her shaking her head ruefully.

But he couldn't worry about that now, and he turned his attention towards the building and the rickety fire escape attached to it. He scaled it nimbly, avoiding the familiar rusted rungs as he climbed. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind strangely empty as he reached the darkened fourth floor window. With a sense of great foreboding, he rapped sharply on the window.

"Wormtail?"

Silence.

He knocked again, harder this time, dread building.

"Peter, let me in. Peter!"

Silence still, and Sirius pounded against the glass. "WORMTAIL! PETER!"

Hanging on the ladder with one hand, he fumbled frantically for his wand, jabbing at the glass. "_Bombarda__!" _The glass shattered, and shards nicked at his hand and cheek, but he didn't pause; he was already scrambling through the window.

The flat was dark and uncharacteristically clean, the usual clutter absent from the sitting room.

"Wormtail?"

The air seemed to grow thick and heavy as Sirius stumbled to the other room, not sure what he would find, or which option was more horrible.

The bedroom too was empty, the bed stripped of its sheets, and Sirius strode to the wardrobe with a sense of impending doom. He threw the doors open with such force that one ripped from it's hinges: a shout tore from his throat and he threw the door across the room, where it shattered opposite the empty wardrobe.

"_Fuck."_ Sirius cried, fury and rage clouding his vision as he sent a lamp flying from the bedside table.

He closed his eyes and spin on his heel, Apparating out of the abandoned flat onto the street next to his motorbike, ignoring the startled yelps of two Muggle girls walking a dog. A dull throb in his fingers told him he had Splinched several fingernails, but his mind was occupied with Peter's betrayal and one thought echoed in his head:

_Get to them before he does._

* * *

James threw a knowing glance at his son as Lily lifted Harry into her arms.

"Mummy ruins all our fun, Harry. Bed times are for Hufflepuffs."

Lily rolled her eyes as James grinned, fixing her husband with a stern look, though her eyes danced with amusement.

"Ignore him, Harry. He just doesn't know how to entertain himself."

James stuck his tongue out at her, making her laugh, which, in turn, made Harry coo and drool happily. "Real mature, Potter."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I'll show you just how _mature_I can be, Evans." He winked roguishly at her as she blushed, and she shook her head.

"Not in front of the baby, James!" But as she carried Harry from the room and up the stairs, she paused to wink back at him.

James had to shake himself out of the stupor his wife had induced, wondering how he'd been so incredibly lucky to be the man she chose to marry. Perhaps fate worked in his favour, or the gods smiled down upon him; whatever the reason, he had to be the luckiest man in the world.

Tossing his wand down on the sofa, he stretched idly, giving Lily a little time to settle Harry down. He thought he might make her a cup of tea before he joined her upstairs-

_ BANG._

The front door of the house burst open, and James into action without pause. Somehow, he knew exactly who their intruder was.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"*

James was in the hallway before he realised he didn't have his wand, but he didn't care. His only thought was giving Lily and Harry time to escape, time to save themselves. _He had to keep them safe._

He threw his body in front of Voldemort, blocking the staircase and the path to his family. He met the cold, red eyes defiantly and didn't budge, standing rigid and straight-backed, daring him to do his worst.

He didn't close his eyes as the wand raised and pointed at his chest.

Voldemort's lips moved, but James didn't hear the curse.

He heard Lily's laughter and Harry's coos, and then he fell.

* * *

Lily's hands shook as she placed Harry in his crib, and she nearly fell as she spun to shut the door.

Her chest tightened and her breath came in short, rapid gasps as she shoved the rocking chair Remus had built in front of the door, the bedside table thrown haphazardly on top of it. Ears ringing, she heard the creak of the stairs and her knees nearly gave way, despair and desperation making her body feel like lead.

She heard the footsteps on the staircase and knew that it was not James who climbed them. The gait was far too even, purposeful; James did everything with energy and enthusiasm, and hardly ever walked slowly. A sob wracked her body as her heart shattered, feeling the loss of her husband in every inch of her skin, her bones. She kept shoving furniture in front of the door, and chanting, "We're okay, we're okay."

She didn't know whether it was for Harry's benefit or hers.

The door crashed open and the furniture went flying, knocking her into the bars of the crib. She cried out, another sob escaping her, and in vain she called out as she turned to face the Dark Lord.

"_JAMES!"_

Another part of her broke with the realisation that he could not answer her, but she threw her arms wide, keeping her son, _their _son, behind her.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"*

The plea came easily, though she knew all too well that Voldemort would scoff at such a thing. Her vision was hazy from tears, but she was very aware of the wand pointing at her.

"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now."

The cruel voice sent chills down her spine, but more disturbing were his words. Stand aside? Live without her husband and child? Allow someone to harm her son, a son who looked so like James? Choose her life over Harry's?

She lifted her chin and set her jaw, standing unflinchingly between Voldemort and Harry.

"Not Harry, please, no, take me, kill me instead-"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!" His impatience was obvious, yet she still refused to budge.

"Not Harry… Please…. have mercy… have mercy…"

The shrill, high laugh made her want to cover her ears and scream, but she kept her arms outstretched, shielding Harry.

Voldemort's arm coiled back and lashed out, like a snake lunging at it's prey, and Lily closed her eyes.

_I'm coming, James._

* * *

**2 NOVEMBER, 1981**

The words appeared to swim on the page as Remus stared, numb from head to toe, the pub around him seeming to disappear. The cheers and chatter of excited voices sounded both loud and far away; the celebration and joy seemed alien, incomprehensible. His fingers clenched into fists, white-knuckled, the newspaper wrinkling in his grip.

He forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly, counting to ten with each breath: _in… out…. in__…..__ out…. _He must stay calm. He must stay calm.

He repeated the mantra over and over, telling himself to concentrate on releasing the tension building in his muscles.

_Calm. Stay calm._

His eyes found the headline once more:

POTTERS DEAD! HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEFEATED!

He saw red.

The paper ripped in half and he threw it from him, standing so suddenly that his chair tipped backward with a crash. A few of the patrons nearby turned to stare and whisper, and Remus snarled at them, sending their drinks to shatter on the floor with a sweep of his arm.

The entire pub was silent now, watching him with fear and alarm. Breathing heavily, he kicked his fallen chair roughly to the side, shoving his way through the crowd towards the door. Someone he recognised vaguely from Hogwarts reached out to touch his shoulder, but Remus slapped her hand away with a growl, bearing his teeth as he hissed, "_Don't __touch__ me."_

She shrank from him, eyes wide, and he spun abruptly away from her and kicked the door open, striding into the streets of Muggle London. Ducking into a deserted, narrow alley, he knocked a rubbish bin over and screamed. Turning on his heel, he threw his fist and punched the wall.

The crunch of bones fracturing and shooting pain centred Remus, snapping him out of his rage. Panting, he slumped against the wall, sliding down it to the ground, where he put his head in his hands.

James. Dead. Lily. Dead. Peter. Dead. Sirius. Sirius….

Guilt consumed Remus, and he clutched at his hair, gripping it tightly as he cried. It was all his fault. His fault. He'd suspected Sirius was the spy, the traitor…. but he hadn't said a thing. He'd forgiven Sirius when he nearly murdered Snape, when Sirius had betrayed Remus' secret for revenge. He'd failed his friends, the only people who had accepted him, had loved him despite his furry little problem. He'd failed them, and now they were dead.

Dead. His fault.

The anger swelled in him again, and Remus fought it down, shaking with the effort of controlling himself. He wasn't always a werewolf, but the wolf was always there, in his mind, his instincts, waiting. Waiting for him to snap.

He wished that Sirius wouldn't go to Azkaban.

He wanted to rip Black apart himself.

* * *

"_**War is**__** hell, but that's not the half of it, because **__**war is**__** also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. **__**War is**__** nasty; **__**war is**__** fun. **__**War is**__** thrilling; **__**war is**__** drudgery. **__**War makes you**__** a man; **__**war makes you**__** dead."**_

_**-Tim **__**O'Brien**_

* * *

The 1970s saw the rise of Lord Voldemort, the most feared wizard who ever lived.

In the 1970s, Lord Voldemort began to gather followers, furthering his political agenda through propaganda, coercion, and fear.

It was a time marked by death and atrocities, disappearances and torture, disaster, confusion, suspicion, and terror.

It was a time of betrayal, self-preservation; of privilege, of political corruption, of oppression, of war.

A generation of children grew up with "Voldemort" and "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" and "Death Eaters" frequently appearing in headlines, with obituaries littered with familiar names.

A generation of children grew up with ideas of superiority and inferiority, privilege versus rights, "right" and "wrong" drilled into their heads. They grew up forced to choose a side, to see peers as _friend_ or _foe_, with little in between.

Perhaps most importantly, these children were forced to _grow up._ They had to shoulder an adult's burdens too soon, to become soldiers before they had even become themselves. They faced death without really having lived.

This is their story.

This is, primarily, a war story. The stories of those who entered battle straight out of school, barely considered adults. It is the story of children-turned-warriors, of battles won and lost, of broken families and friendships ripped apart.

It is the story of the First Wizarding War and the people who fought it, who willingly sacrificed everything for their cause.

You see, as Aeschylus once said, "in war, truth is the first casualty." Warriors are remembered for few things, and only as they relate to the bigger picture. Most of the details are lost, when they might be more important; the smallest details developed these people into the soldiers they would become, who would perform those famous deeds.

This is a war story, but one that explores war's effects on the human psyche. Friendships torn apart by suspicion and doubt; a poorly timed, unplanned pregnancy; loss, the horrors of a first battle, of the first kill. But it is also a story of courage and dignity, defiance, of love and sacrifice.

This is the story of five people who were thrown abruptly into adulthood as they joined a rebellion against the Dark Lord Voldemort and his followers.

You know their fates; now, discover all the things that lead them there.

But first, they had one last day to be children: a clear, sunny day in June, during which James and Sirius sank a boat in the Black Lake.


End file.
